Pov Ignis:
**I. The Scars of Dawn**
The dawn arrived not as a herald of hope, but as a pale, sickly light that crept through the pines like a thief. It was a gray, lifeless glow, as if the sun itself had been drained of its vitality. Azazel's hounds—those monstrous creatures with eyes like smoldering embers and breath that froze the air—had vanished with the night. Yet their absence brought no relief. The fire in my chest still burned, a restless, gnawing thing that demanded release. I needed to fight. To feel the crunch of bone beneath my knuckles, the slick warmth of blood on my skin. Anything to silence the memories rising like specters from the ashes of the orphanage.
